


The Kindness of Strangers

by averita



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ASoIaF Kink Meme, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, F/M, Gen, five things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-04 21:57:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/averita/pseuds/averita
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Five husbands Lysa Tully could have been happy with, and one life where she didn't marry anyone and was happy like that too." (ASOIAF Kink Meme prompt)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Kindness of Strangers

**Author's Note:**

> This is definitely a stretch for me, and I'm a bit nervous about it because I haven't written _any_ of these characters apart from Catelyn - and honestly haven't read much about most of them, either - but the idea wouldn't leave me alone. I hope it turned out okay! Comments and thoughts are very welcome.

Lysa cries through the first three years of her marriage. This, she is sure, is her punishment, what she gets for daring to want more - more than the hand that was dealt her, more than an ancient husband who was more excited by the swords she represented than by Lysa herself. But even Jon Arryn would have been better than the imp, the little man who is being punished as surely as she is for his very existence. 

Even in this, though, she cannot empathize with him, for his bitterness galls her; he, at least, has a lovely bride, and for all that she hates her duty, she does it well. Lord Tyrion doesn’t seem especially bothered by the fact that she has been spoiled - "My lady," he said wryly, when she first dared to broach the subject, "I daresay you are the less spoiled of us two." His father, though, and hers - well. Each seems content to have their problem child paired off, sent away and miserable.

The first child is a blessing, and long in coming. Her first babe, that precious child she fled to protect, had nevertheless been stillborn; Joanna, though, is a healthy girl, and above all, _normal_. The maester had assured her, but it is a worry she had not been able to shake, and one, she discovers, her lord husband had shared.

"She is perfect, my lady," Tyrion assures her, holding his daughter in arms that she knows are stronger than they look. "I am glad she will not suffer the same cruelties that I have." Lysa bites back her instinctive scoff at the mention of his suffering, because there is a tenderness in his mismatched eyes that she has not seen before, and finds she rather likes. 

Her young husband reads constantly, but the first time she hears him read aloud, he has Joanna in his lap. He tells her of dragons, of conquering heroes, of monsters beyond the Wall and wonders across the Narrow Sea; he speaks of things that Lysa has never known, and tells stories that she finds herself enjoying despite herself. If Tyrion finds it strange, the way she sits and listens to him, he never says. Indeed, after a time, she notices that he tends to repeat the tales she likes the most.

For her nameday, some four years after they are wed, he presents her with a collection of beautifully illustrated books. "You are too kind," she says, and finds that she means it.

***

Stannis is seven when he comes to Riverrun, and Lysa takes to him immediately.

He is a small, serious boy - he doesn’t play with her and Cat, preferring to spend his time in lessons or holed up with a book, and training diligently each day in the practice yard. Though he joins them by the river sometimes he never seems to enjoy himself, despite Lysa’s best efforts to engage him. 

“He’s homesick,” Cat tells her wisely. “Be kind to him, Lysa, but don’t push him.” But as months go by and Stannis remains in his shell, Lysa decides that Cat doesn’t know what she’s talking about, and makes it her mission to befriend him properly.

She spends more afternoons in the castle, tagging along to the library or the courtyard or wherever he chooses to spend his free time. He seems more perplexed than annoyed at her determined company, but is too courteous to question it; in any case, he does not send her away, and as far as she’s concerned, that’s all the permission she needs.

“I can’t do this,” she whines to him one day as they practice sums in the library - she has never had a head for numbers, and they’ve been here for _hours_. He simply looks at her with that familiar quizzical, slightly haughty expression, and suddenly she finds herself angry at how he always remains so calm, when she herself is so easily flustered. Angrily, she drops her quill and rises to storm out, only to find herself whirling around to face him as he hesitantly calls her back.

He is a good tutor, and patient with her. Cat joins them sometimes but Lysa likes it best when it’s just her and Stannis, especially those days when she convinces him to come down to the river or the godswood, insisting that the fresh air helps her. Months pass, then years, and his smiles start become more frequent and less forced.

When Mother dies, it is his shoulder she cries on; she tries so hard to be brave in front of Cat, who is being brave for everyone else. In return she is there when the news comes of his own parents, sitting with him in silence and later bearing his anger when she decides it’s time for him to stop brooding. 

It is his idea that they marry, when news comes of his brother’s rebellion. It is strategic, he explains; with Lord Eddard agreeing to marry Cat in his brother’s place, the two marriages will secure the bonds between the Tullys, Starks, and Baratheons. Though her father is hesitant, he agrees, and the date is set.

It may be strategic, but when he places the cloak over her shoulders, she couldn’t be happier. She only feels sorry for Cat, stuck with the cold Northern stranger, when her own future is so bright.

***

Benjen may be the third son, may never be more than the lord of a minor holdfast, but at least he is more handsome than Eddard.

He was too young to wed, of course, when the fighting started, so Lord Tully had to content himself with Catelyn's marriage and her own betrothal. Lysa doesn’t even meet Ben until a year later, when she travels north with her sister to Winterfell. 

_Yes, he will be a fine man indeed_ , she decides when she first lays eyes on him. She does not think much of Winterfell - it is ancient and grand, but so dreary, and the frostiness between Cat and her husband over the bastard boy permeates what few parts of the castle the cold doesn’t touch. But Benjen, he will do. 

He makes her laugh, too. That is an unexpected surprise, for Eddard seems incapable of it. They are to remain at Winterfell until Eddard - _Ned, I must call him Ned_ \- decides he is of marrying age, and with Cat busy running the castle and chasing after Robb, he is her only company more often than not. "Let's go racing," he'll suggest, or show her the best towers to climb and how to place her feet so that she won’t fall. He reminds her a bit of Edmure, in truth, though a more mature, slightly sadder version; though she is nothing like his own sister, she suspects he sees a bit of the Lady Lyanna in her, as well.

When he shows her the hot springs, she kisses him, just to see. He jumps, and returns it - more clumsily than Petyr once had, before Septa had caught them and Father had sent him away, but eagerly. Ben doesn't give her the same butterflies that Petyr did, but he doesn't stare at Cat, either, and he will be very handsome, and likely a knight, one day.

Yes, this is enough to be starting with, she thinks, and kisses him again.

***

She spends most of her time with Elia in the beginning, and is overwhelmingly grateful for the older woman’s kindness. King’s Landing is not what she expected - it is muggy and rank, and though she lives in splendor inside the Red Keep, it is not the life she had thought to have. But Brandon is dead, there is a new warden in the north, and here she is, a Queen of the Seven Kingdoms rather than the Lady of Winterfell.

Rhaegar is a kind husband and a good king; she may be one of three, but she is still overwhelmed by all that comes with being married to such a man. Her days with Elia and the children are a blessing; they remind her of the old days, when she cared for Cat and Edmure, and it isn’t long before she loves her stepchildren as though they are her own.

She sees less of Jon than she does of the others, though, because for all that Rhaegar and Elia have embraced her, Lyanna barely speaks to her. She has always been wild, Lysa knows - “wolf blood”, Brandon had called it - but what little fire she still has is channeled into cold glares and determined silence. _She has no right to be jealous_ , Lysa thinks bitterly, _running away with a married man in the first place_. If anyone should be jealous, it should be her and Elia; Rhaegar is sweet and gentle with them, but it is Lyanna he looks at with passion in his eyes.

“Don’t dwell on it,” Elia reassures her when she complains. “She’s lost so much, and blames herself. She’s angry at the world - you are simply an easy target.” It amazes Lysa, truly, how her sister-wife can speak of the woman who so thoughtlessly inserted herself into her marriage with sympathy in her voice.

Even then, she’s not sure she truly believes it, not until the second anniversary of Brandon’s death when Lyanna enters her chambers without knocking. Her eyes are dark and wet. Childishly, Lysa remains silent, not moving until Lyanna seats herself next to her on the bed and takes her hands.

“You loved him, didn’t you?” she asks hoarsely, and though Lysa isn’t actually sure that that’s true, she can’t bring herself to say otherwise. In any case, she doesn’t have a chance before Lyanna’s mouth is on hers, hot and urgent.

Later, Lysa thinks that she is not the only one living a life she never thought to have. Still, as she stares at the ceiling and pictures them all - the children she loves, the husband she admires, the friend she adores, and the dark-haired girl asleep next to her - she decides it’s not one that she would change.

***

It’s hard to remember being happy.

Riverrun has become a prison, more terrible than any cell; it’s been six years, and every room and corner brings back memories of the times before. Times when she was young and bright, and her days were filled with laughter and songs; when she had Petyr and Cat, and she could look at her father with something besides violent, sickening hate. 

Even that has been dulled with time, though, as she drifts through the years. She still finds her gaze lingering on the sharp edge of a letter opener, or the distance to the ground from the high towers, but it happens less than it used to; she discovered long ago that she is not strong enough to end her own misery. 

Edmure is the only good thing in her life. For a long time she couldn’t look at him without thinking of her own lost son, but time and desperation has brought her closer to him. He is a happy child, one who makes her laugh and shows off for her as he nears manhood. She knows he’d prefer she were Cat, but even that doesn’t bother her anymore; she expects nothing less. No one has ever wanted her. 

This is why, when Marq Piper proposes, she is speechless. 

Marq has spent a good deal of time at Riverrun over the years; though older than Edmure, the two are close, and Lysa has spent many days watching them wreak havoc in the castle. He is a funny, exuberant boy - a man now, she supposes, at six and ten - and has always treated her kindly, but she has given him little thought until now.

“You are beautiful,” he tells her. “I’ve always thought so. But you seem so sad, and I should like to try and make you happy.”

Lysa smiles tremulously, taking his hand. “You are sweet,” she says, “but I’m not fit to be a wife, Marq.” She means to leave it at that, but he is so earnest, and when the tears begin to fall he cups her cheek.

She tells him everything - everything except that it was Petyr, though she suspects that he can guess. When she speaks of the tansy he holds her hand tightly, jaw clenched; he seems ready to confront his own liege lord, to Lysa’s shock. No one has ever wanted to fight on her behalf.

Even more shocking is his confession that he already knew she was not a maid, having spoken to her father before coming to her. “I’m no maid either,” he says with a shrug. “I would still have you as my wife.”

Lysa suspects she would marry anyone to be free of Riverrun, but when she accepts, she finds herself glad that it is Marq. She no longer knows if she is capable of being truly happy, but if she is, she thinks he will make her so.

***

“Do you ever miss your family?”

Lysa turns to her daugher, taking in her smudged cheeks and bright, curious eyes. “Why do you ask?” she says, smoothing her hand over Mina’s soft hair.

Mina shrugs, plopping down beside Lysa, who puts aside the sweater she had been mending. “I heard some people downstairs talking ‘bout Lord Edmure. That’s your brother, right? Don’t you miss him? I’d miss Thom if I went away.” 

Lysa smiles slightly. “Yes, I miss him,” she admits, and has to swallow back the unexpected lump in her throat.

It’s true - she misses Edmure terribly. She hasn’t seen him since she fled Riverrun, after Petyr died and her father tried to murder her children. He’s a man grown now, she knows, and she is sad that she will not be able to see him come into his own. 

_Do you ever miss your family?_ If only it were as simple as that, though she’s glad that in her daughter’s mind it is. She supposes she does, sometimes. She misses the happy things - sharing secrets and giggles with Cat late at night, the long lazy days by the river with her siblings and Petyr, the vague memory of her parents dancing together at a feast. Thinking of such things saddens her, but no longer fills her with the bitterness that had haunted her for so long. 

The other times, though, the things that came after...she tries not to think about them, but the memories find her, sometimes. Sitting with Petyr as his wound festered, her sister’s name on his lips even as the light left his eyes; Catelyn herself in the days following the duel, pale and drawn, not defending Brandon but not speaking against him either. Mostly she will never forget the smell of that terrible tea, and how close she came to drinking it. That haunts her more than anything.

The life she has now is simple and hard-won. The jewels and coins that she had stolen from Riverrun, along with Masha’s kindness, had let her stay at the inn until she gave birth to not one but two healthy babes; eight years later, they are still here.

Even if she misses the way things were sometimes, Lysa is happier sharing one room with her bastard children and working as an innkeep than she ever was as a daughter of Riverrun. That life had killed Petyr, and nearly ruined her own future; even Cat, the favorite child, lost her betrothed ( _good riddance_ , Lysa can’t help but think) and was handed off to her brother like a horse. It is only through the luck of picking the winning side that she is Lady of Winterfell rather than in exile or worse. Most of the time, Lysa is glad of that.

She looks again at her daughter, who still looks curious, and her smile grows warm as she shakes herself free of such thoughts and kisses Mina’s forehead. “But, my sweet,” she tells her honestly, “I have all the family I need right here.”


End file.
